125. ‘Se ’l pensier che mi strugge,’

If the thought that torments me,

so sharp and fierce,

could be dressed in a fitting colour,

perhaps the one who burns me and flees,

would share the heat,

and Love would wake where he sleeps:

the footprints left by my feet

on the hills and fields,

would perhaps be less lonely

my eyes would be less moist,

if she burned who remains like ice,

and leaves not an ounce in me

that it not fire and flame.

Because love weakens me

and robs me of my skill,

I speak in harsh rhymes, devoid of sweetness:

and yet the branches

do not always show their natural worth

in bark, or flower, or leaf.

Let Love, where he sits in the shade

and those lovely eyes

see what the heart conceals.

If the grief that’s freed

should overflow in tears and laments,

the one hurts me the other

her, in that I have no art.

Sweet graceful verses,

I used in Love’s

first assault, when I had no other weapons,

which of you will come and square

my heart of stone

so I can at least give tongue as before?

For I seem to have him within

who always depicts my lady

and speaks about her:

wishing to portray her,

is not enough for me, and it seems I only waste away.

Alas, what help there was

for my sweetness has fled.

Like a child who has trouble

moving and shaping his tongue,

who cannot speak, but who’s pained by any longer

being silent, so desire leads me

to speak, and I hope before I die

my sweet enemy will hear me.

If her only joy perhaps

is in her lovely face,

and she scorns all else,

green river-bank, you can hear,

and make my sighs echo so widely

that how your were my friend

will always be repeated.

I know so lovely a foot

never touched the earth

as the one that has imprinted you:

so that the weary heart returns

with tormented body

to share its hidden thoughts with you.

If you had only kept

some of those lovely traces

among your turf and flowers,

so that my bitter life

in weeping, might find what calms it!

The doubtful wandering soul

must find what peace it can.

Wherever I turn my eyes

I find sweet peace,

thinking: ‘Here the wandering light fell.’

Whatever herb or flower I cull

I think that it has its roots

in this earth, where she used to walk

among the fields and streams

and so find a cool seat

flowery and green.

So nothing is lost,

and greater certainty would be worse.

Blessed spirit, what are you

who do this to another?

O my poor verse, how rough you are!

I think you know it:

so stay here in this wood.